


At The Bottom Of The Basin

by 3BeesAndCoffee3



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anxiety Attacks, Awesome Alana Bloom, Awkward Flirting, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Jack Crawford Being Jack Crawford, Like kinda but not really, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Original Character(s), Mostly Bodies, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Slow Burn, Someone Help Will Graham, Therapy, Vampire Will Graham, Vampires, Vomiting, Will Graham Has Nightmares, Will Graham is Retired, non-traditional vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3BeesAndCoffee3/pseuds/3BeesAndCoffee3
Summary: He pulls the door open, closing the door behind himself before any of the dogs can weasel their way out. “I’m not interested.”Jack laughs as he makes his way to the porch, though it's not an amused sound. “Good Morning to you too, Will.”(This isn't your traditional take on vampires, but I wanted to write some Vampire Will Graham and his new Psychiatrist who's more than happy to help.)
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 220





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> It's been sooo long since I've written and actually finished and posted something. Kinda pumped about it.

There’s an acrid smell in the air when Will steps out onto his porch that morning to let his dogs run, the sun just starting to rise over the tops of the trees surrounding the property. It's gotten colder the past few nights, the leaves have almost all fallen by now, leaving the trees bare and skeletal. He can’t quite place the smell, bitter and heavy on the back of his tongue. Breathing in too deeply makes his lungs ache with the cold anyways, but it sets him on edge. There’s frost lining the wood of his porch, creeping along every surface in an icy blanket. His slippers leave thawed out prints where he stands. 

The change in weather hasn’t seemed to have phased his dogs in the slightest though, leaping through once raked piles of decaying leaves. He watches his breath come out in short puffs of nearly tangible spirals. He should have put on his coat first, goosebumps lining his exposed arms. He still lets his dogs wander a while longer before calling them back in, watching them chase each other, tails frantic and excited as they skid across still frozen earth. 

Once they’re all back inside, Will pours himself a generous cup of coffee. It doesn’t do much for him anymore, never able to pull him out of that unending sense of fatigue like it used to, but old habits die hard and he likes the bitter taste on his tongue. When he returns to the living room the dogs are piled up on the ragged old carpet in front of the fireplace, content and warm. He joins them, just cozied up on the couch beside them, though it's equally as coated in fur as if he was to curl up directly on top of them. He pulls a blanket over his lap and lets himself doze between awake and asleep, sipping on his coffee and watching the flames lick at simmering coals as he listens to his dog's snore.

He’s probably more on the side of asleep than awake when his dogs perk back up, suddenly alert. It only takes a moment after that for them to sprint into action, all of their bodies crowding the doorway, barking and whining. Will sighs and pulls himself off of the couch, setting his coffee aside. He really doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now, he’s still in his pajamas, hair tangled and messy, but ignoring them isn’t really much of an option when he has a full pack of alarm systems barking and dancing around the door. “Alright, back up, come on,” Will sighs, nudging them all back with his foot as he skirts around them to the door. He can see from the window in his door that there’s a car in his driveway, one he knows.

He pulls the door open, closing the door behind himself before any of the dogs can weasel their way out. “I’m not interested.”

Jack laughs as he makes his way to the porch, though it's not an amused sound. “Good Morning to you too, Will.”

“I don’t care what it is, I’m not interested,” he says again, folding his arms over his chest. He feels suddenly and ridiculously exposed, standing there in a white t-shirt and some old pajama pants. Jack on the other hand looks the epitome of professionalism, dark slacks and a neatly ironed out shirt under his coat.  
“Oh come on, Will,” Jack presses, making his way up the few steps until he’s standing on the same level as Will. “at least hear me out.”

Will doesn’t say anything but he can feel the start of a headache at his temples with how tense he is. He used to like Jack, he _Likes_ Jack, but there’s been too many mishaps and gained trauma that falls back onto Jack’s recklessness that it's left a bad taste in Will's mouth. 

Jack apparently takes the silence as an invitation to continue because he smiles slightly before saying, “We found another one.” he doesn’t have to explain anymore for Will to know what he’s talking about, it's been all over the news for weeks. Several murders, quick succession, all mid-twenties, dark hair, differing genders, all missing their ring finger. They’d been strangled to death before careful, neat incisions had been made across the body to bleed it and string them. They strung up the bodies in their room like a fucking banner.

“This one’s different,” Will guesses mildly, though his defense is still up. 

Jack nods. “We want you to take a look, see what you can find,” he says, though Will wonders if there’s really a ‘we’ or if Jack just wants his personal lapdog back. “Honestly right now we’re at a loss, you’re our best bet.”

Will isn’t surprised that Jack’s fallen right back into his not-quite-guilt-tripping habits, but it eats at Will nonetheless. There’s a part of him that twists uncomfortably at the thought of saying no even though he really should. There has always been a deep desire to please Jack in Will, wanting to do right and make him some semblance of proud. Jack is a friend and a twisted father figure, even if Will wishes his brain wouldn’t make that connection. Still, the knowledge of what happened last time Will helped on a case isn’t something Will has forgotten. He can't forget no matter how hard he tries, it lives with him daily. Even if Jack doesn’t know the specific reasoning for why Will quit so abruptly after that case, refusing to ever set foot on another crime scene again- he wishes he would have respected it.

“I told you before, Jack, I’m done,” Will sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose to try and ease some of the tension building in his head. “I don’t think it would be a good idea, anyway.”

“Why?” Jack presses, and it’s not the first time he’s asked that. Jack had been furious when Will had told him he was done. He’d tried to get an explanation out of him, something Will had still been too raw about to even begin to explain. Now he knows he simply can’t explain. “You’re good at what you do.”

“That isn’t what I do, Jack,” Will hisses. “I did it for you because you asked me- because I was helping-”

“You could help again, Will!” Jack interrupts, stepping closer. “You could stop people from dying.”

“I can’t,” Will bit out, refraining from taking a step back. “Not anymore.”

“Why, Will? Why can’t you tell me?”

God, that was a loaded question. He wouldn’t even talk about it alone in his house with no one to hear it but his dogs. 

“Are you worried about going too far? Getting in too deep?”

That used to be it, or at least a large part of it. Will used to lay awake at night, choking on his own breath, the actions of every man he’d investigated so deeply twisting around in his head. He could feel his hands sticky with blood that wasn’t his own, the feel of a blade pushing into the taut blanket of skin, just under the bow of the ribcage. He could feel their struggle, the life leaving their bodies as he closed his fists around their windpipes. He used to spend his time worrying about becoming one of them, unable to discern the difference between reality and the dusty not-memories of what he allowed his mind to see. 

It still haunts him sometimes, waking up choking on a scream, sweat-drenched and shaking. Not as much anymore, though. Not since he left the FBI and Jack behind, anyways. He has other things that eat at him now, plaguing him at all hours. 

“You almost sound worried,” Will says dryly and Jack looks at him seriously, lips curling into what almost looks like a frown. 

“I’m not going to do this carelessly, I’ll have you evaluated before you go back into the field,” Jack says and Will wants to laugh. All this has ever been is careless, Jack seeking his next high of a job well done while Will sits back behind to pick up his pieces again. 

“I won’t pass,” Will says honestly. There’s a reason this has always been done in an unorthodox kind of way. He couldn’t be real FBI even when he’d wanted to. 

“Let a psychiatrist decide that,” Jack says. “If he thinks it's too risky, I’ll leave you alone.”

Will doesn’t even know what makes him agree, really. His heart is pounding in his ears, fingers digging into his arms where he’s kept them folded. He doesn’t like the idea of someone psychoanalyzing him, never has, it’s always been off the table and everyone knows it. Yet, here he is.

“Thank you, Will,” Jack says honestly, dripping with sincerity that still doesn’t make Will feel any less sick. "here, give him a call, Alana recommended him herself.” he hands Will a sleek looking business card. “Tell him I sent you.”

Will takes it, turning it over in his hand a few times, watching the matt black reflect dully in the sunlight. _Hannibal Lecter, Psychiatrist._


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for blood, blood-drinking, nightmares, and panic attacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're finally getting to the meat of this, lemme know what you think.

The card stays on Wills dresser for almost a week before he finally has the stomach to touch it again. He can’t put it off for any longer. It’s a miracle that Crawford hasn’t busted his door down asking him why he hasn’t called the damned psychiatrist yet. He picks it up, resigned as he dials the number on the card.

The phone only rings twice before someone answers. “Doctor Lector, who’s this?” The voice is steady and unbothered. He has a rather thick accent, though it comes out smooth like butter when the man speaks.

“Uh, I’m Will Garahm?” he starts, not sure how to approach the subject. 

“Ah, yes, William,” he says like it's obvious. “I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” Will says, though it's a lie and a bad one at that.

“No need to apologize,” Hannibal amends smoothly. “What can I do for you?”

Will thinks that the man has to know why he called, yet he’s left it open as if Will might call for any number of reasons. “I needed to schedule that appointment, Jack sent me.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says, quickly followed by, “when in your schedule would best suit your needs? Since you’ve been busy as of late.” and the way he says it makes Will think that Hannibal knows exactly how busy Will hasn’t been, mostly tending to housework and reading. It makes his stomach flip. He can’t see the man through the phone of course, but he feels the man’s smile, just faint and slightly smug. 

When Will doesn’t answer right away, Hannibal offers up, “I have tomorrow evening open, six forty-five.”

“That’s fine,” Will agrees. He has no reason to back out of it, nothing going on that makes a decent enough excuse to decline.

“Wonderful, I look forward to it,” Hannibal says evenly and Will wonders if the man has any idea just how much Will doesn’t want to do this. 

Will thanks him and hangs up. 

His brain won’t shut off for the rest of the day, buzzing with controlled anxiety about meeting with Doctor Lecter, about what’s going to happen when Jack finally pulls him back into the field like a dog on a chain. When he finally falls into bed, he doesn’t even know what time it is. It’s late, the sun long set, and the chill of the late autumn air is setting in, making the wooden floors cold under his bare feet. He pulls the blankets around him, discarding his glasses on the nightstand. He’s still in his jeans but he feels too drained to care. Some of the dogs followed him into the bedroom, finding their place on the floor around his bed while others maintained watch elsewhere in the house. 

He stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours. It might be, he’s done it before. Sleep should come easier considering how tired every ounce of him feels, aching, and drained. He wants to just close his eyes and fall asleep. He does, eventually, but it isn’t peaceful or restful sleep. It’s stained with nightmares, memories of murders he never committed, the sound of screams from victims he only ever knew after they’d passed. 

He walks into a room, white and utterly featureless. There are no windows, no corners to even indicate the start or end. There’s not even a door behind him. “Just take a look,” he hears Crawford say.

Will steps forward, though his feet are silent on the white expanse all around him. There’s a body on the floor, a body he’s sure wasn’t there before. It’s pale, the limbs long and frail. The skin is slightly yellowed in places, like an old bruise just beneath the skin. Will knows the body, or at least should. He can’t remember, though, no matter how hard he tries. He kneels down beside it even when every part of his body is screaming not to. The body doesn’t twitch, doesn’t breathe or jerk, but its eyes slid open slowly like it’s the most natural thing and they look through Will, right past him into the big expanse of unending white. The eyes are almost all white, any hint of color in the Iris is bleached out, bleeding into the same off-white as the sclera. It makes the unseeing pupil stark black in comparison. 

Will doesn’t remember moving, let alone reaching out to touch, but his fingers gently trace around the rim of the eye, the skin is tight under his careful administrations. He should call Jack in, have Zeller and Bev look at the very least, but the whole thing has the words stuck in his throat, captivated. His fingers dance down over the body’s cheek, the skin has long gone cold. The body is old enough that rigor mortise set in hours before anyone found the body. Something pulls at Will and he slides his finger along the bottom lip, pressing until they part, displaying a set of teeth. They aren’t remarkable, slightly crooked, well taken care of. Will doesn’t know what he’s looking for until his finger catches along with his gum just above his canines. 

The mouth curls into a soft smile and Will practically falls over himself in an attempt to get away. “See? You aren’t alone,” the body says, though its mouth doesn’t move and he thinks the voice sounds a lot like his own. His finger is bleeding freely from where he’d cut it on the jagged edge of a tiny, perfect, second set of teeth.

Will gasps awake panting so hard his head throbs, vision greying at the edges with every beat of his heart. He’s soaked in sweat, his clothes and sheets sticking to his body uncomfortably. He hand flies to his own mouth as he sits up, fingers finding the sharp edges of his own second set of teeth, resting in his gums above his others, retracted and waiting. 

Even just sitting in his bed, his back pressed against the headboard, the room is swimming. There’s a tremor in his hands that he can’t shake off, a pulsing sort of feeling in his head growing. He feels clammy and feverish, as he stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping over a concerned dog. He makes his way to the bathroom with more difficulty than he’d like to admit, gripping the walls as best he can as he goes. Once he’s pushed the door closed behind himself he strips out of his clothes, discarding them onto the cold tile beneath him. Everything is slightly fuzzy around the edges and he climbs into the tub with little grace. He turns the shower on and lets the cold water spray at his feet. His whole body is shaking by now, skin thrumming and alive, hot to the touch. Once the water warms up he lets himself sink to the bottom of the tub under the spray, leaning against the side of the tub. The water runs over his skin, pools in every divet of his body as he breathes. 

He lets his eyes close again, trying to at least get his heart to stop hammering in his ears. The nightmare was more or less real. It’s one he’s had before, though certain things are always different about it no matter how many times he has the dream. 

It had been a case like any other, a series of murders and Jack Crawford pulling Will out of the little life he’d made for himself to come and place himself inside the head of another killer. He’d been left alone with the most recent body, but its eyes never opened, no one spoke to him. He did touch it though, that same sort of odd, unexplainable sense of awe that had his fingers pushing back his lips to expose puffy gums with a set of small, sharp teeth buried inside. 

It had been a medical anomaly when the FBI looked over the body after Will’s discovery. It was just a strange deformation. 

Except it wasn’t, and Will who had spent almost the entirety of his adult life with a set near-identical teeth knew that it wasn’t just a bizarre dental malformation. The man likely wasn’t born with them, he likely had them painstakingly grow much as Will had. Something about seeing another person with similar circumstances such as Will scared something in them that he couldn’t describe. He’d quit right after that. 

Will still doesn’t think he can put into physical words what happened to him, there are so many blanks even now. He’d gotten sick one day, almost five years ago now. A simple stomach bug that evolved until Will couldn’t stand, his body too weak to even hold his head up. Everything he tried to eat or drink made him so violently ill he’d vomited stomach bile and blood on more than one occasion. He was starving, dehydrated, and burning up with a fever that he was sure would have qualified for an ambulance ride if he could get himself off his bathroom floor and to a phone. He remembers through a haze of fever and what Will is now pretty sure was almost death, the dogs fighting over something in the living room. He’d left the front door open enough for the dogs to let themselves out when he’d started to get sicker and sicker, and when he called for them, voice weak and hoarse, Winston tore into the bathroom maw bloody and carrying a squirrel. 

Even after years he still hates to think of the way he’d torn into the already dead animal, like some sort of uncontrolled animalistic instinct. 

He loses track of time somewhere along the line, his head resting against the tub wall. He’s so tired, even more so than before, the exhaustion of his panic taking over. He wants to just fall asleep again where he is, scared if he moves again it might ruin his fatigue and he’ll be stuck staring at the ceiling again until morning comes. Still, sleeping in a shower is probably a risk he doesn’t really want to take and he forces himself up. His legs feel heavy under him, unstable and weak. He turns off the water, already running cold and he wonders absently how long he’s been in there. 

He pulls himself out of the shower, tugging a towel around himself like a blanket. The tile feels like ice against his skin and he shivers on his way back to bed. He climbs into bed without drying off, piling his blankets on top of himself unceremoniously. He even lets the dogs pile up over himself even though he seldom lets the dogs up on the bed. It’s grounding, having their weight on him. Eventually, he falls back asleep and any dreams he has are forgettable enough. 

In the morning, he feels not unlike he was hit by a bus. His body aches and his head is pounding back at the base of his skull. He needs food, but he’s always a bit put off by the idea after he has that nightmare. Still, he trudges out of bed, dresses, and stands on the porch while the dogs run. It’s even colder today and he finds himself shivering while he waits on the porch. The dogs don’t spend much time outside, though, also apparently cold. He feeds them once their back inside, which is always a little hectic, tripping over dogs as he fills a dozen dishes. Once they’re content and scarfing down their food, Will opens up the door to his basement and goes down. The stairs creak and moan under every step until his feet meet the concrete ground. 

He pulls open the door to the large chest freezer, one of the only things he keeps in the basement. It isn’t full, but there’s a decent amount of bags, mostly ziplock or other varying forms of freezer bags filled with blood. He grabs one of the smaller bags, it's fully frozen, making the frozen blood pinkish in places. He heats it in the microwave after his coffee. 

It’s hot and metallic, flooding his mouth with iron and acidity when the first drops hit his tongue. It hurts dully in his jaw as his second set of teeth slip out of his gums. It makes it disturbingly easy to tear through skin, but he tips his head back instead and lets it fill his mouth, squeezing every drop from the bag before tossing it into the fire. It causes the smoke to smell bitter and toxic for a moment before it fades. He hates how quickly he feels right again, no longer shaky or fatigued. He washes the taste out of his mouth with the rest of his coffee. 

He sits at the table for a long while after that, fingers drumming idly at the empty cup still in his hands as he looks out the window. He feels pleasantly full, sated in a way he only feels after feeding, now. He can eat other food, of course, though sometimes it makes his guts twist and his head pulse, for the most part, it’s fine. Proteins especially do the job when he doesn’t feel like gorging himself on his stash of blood. Having a refrigerator full of food helps keep suspicion down, too. 

Most of it is animal blood. Will doesn’t enjoy hunting, not like he does fishing, anyways, but he does it more often now than he’d like to admit. There’s no thrill in the kill for him, though. He usually ends up bleeding pheasants or a deer if he’s lucky enough. It all tastes more or less the same, though Will finds that the smaller animals are more bitter, sitting sickly sweet on the back of his tongue long after he’s swallowed it down. He’s only managed to get human blood a couple of times from the hospital and the risk was far too high to warrant, even if human blood satisfies some animalistic part of Will that he can’t begin to describe. He thinks he would like the feeling of human flesh tearing through his teeth if he ever let himself.

The day creeps on in typical fashion. He does a load of laundry, finishes butchering a duck from his last hunt, tossing scraps to the dogs as he goes. He tries to ignore the clock as it ticks on, growing steadily closer to evening. 

His concerns are minimal, but he still doesn’t want to attend his session tonight. He doesn’t want anyone in his head, much less a stranger who’s job is to report his findings back to Jack. it makes him uneasy like he’s under a microscope. He wonders how little he can say, or how much Lecter will pry. 

He sighs, resigning himself to dress is something nicer than what he’s wearing now around five, though there’s no real hurry behind any of his actions as he gets ready. He combs out his hair, brushing his teeth a little more than is probably necessary, but paranoia nags at him. He puts on some jeans and a flannel, which isn’t much of an upgrade, but he feels slightly more presentable. 

It’s only as he’s driving there, fingers drumming anxiously against the steering wheel that the full weight of everything sets in. Doctor Lecter, a man he’s never met before is going to decide Will’s fate. He’s going to be the final push or pull in whether or not Will is thrown back into the cases he worked so hard to distance himself from. There’s still a part of him that’s sure all Will would have to do is mention his traumas, the way he thinks it would be a grave mistake to allow himself to become so personally involved in the heads of serial killers again when he had struggled so much last time to separate himself from it all- and Hannibal Lecter would agree, tell Jack that it would be reckless and wrong to put Will back out there. Will isn’t sure if he thinks it’s for his own safety or others, but he also isn’t sure there’s much of a difference anymore. 

Will is more of a threat than before, even if his new eating habits are well controlled and concealed, he also doesn’t want to be nosing around bloodied, vacant bodies. Even before, his brain was becoming far too muddled in reality and the design of a killer for his own comfort. Finding another man with the same set of teeth and likely same forced eating habits was almost a blessing in the way it had shocked Will out of the force.

He parks in the parking lot when he arrives, looking up at a neat and elegant building. He smooths his pants over as he makes his way into the building. It smells earthy, like pine and warmth. It’s dimly lit, but not in a way that’s discerning, more of a comfort. There’s a nice leather couch outside his office, along with some chairs in what Will assumes is the waiting area. He’s a few minutes early, and he contemplates whether or not he should knock or take a seat and wait, but the heavy oak door to the office opens with ease before he has much time to make a decision. 

Will recognizes the man from his picture on the website he’d snooped over, though he’s taller and somehow even more composed looking in person. He’s dressed in a dark grey suit, hair combed neatly as he offers Will a slight smile. He’s the pinnacle of professionalism.

“Good evening, Will.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m an empath, not a psychopath,” Will argues, though the lines are so blurred at this point he only says it on autopilot. 
> 
> “I didn’t say you were, Will,” He smiles easily, only slightly, though. “I actually find you quite intelligent and incredibly empathetic in a unique way that allows you to see inside a murderer’s head as you did. But, I would argue still that all of these factors harbor a level of instability. It’s the price you pay.”
> 
> Will doesn’t answer, his mouth is oddly dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the response I've gotten on this story so far! I was super nervous to post it, but I'm glad people are enjoying it. I'll try and post as regularly as possible, but life's been crazy so I hope you'll be patient. Anyway, I hope you enjoy their first meet up.

Will follows behind Hannibal into the office, apologizing briefly for being early, though it’s only by a few minutes. 

“On the contrary, I prefer my patients to be early over tardy,” Hannibal comments simply, smiling as he comes to stand in front of his desk. There are two seats in front of it, black leather and spacious enough for two people to sit comfortably on either side.

The office is large, much larger than Will had expected. The walls are a deep grey, old pillars, and molding work that he assumes the building must be very old and mostly original. There’s a second level, not unlike a large scaffolding, lined with library walls. There are easily over a thousand books, and he wonders absently what they must be about. 

“I’m not a patient,” Will says, only masking a bit of his annoyance, though he thinks that Hannibal sees through it anyway. 

“For this evening, you are,” he counters calmly. “That is what I’ve been hired to do, after all.”

Will hums, standing awkwardly in the center of the room, eyes roaming the walls. 

“Please, take a seat,” he says, gesturing to one of the two couch-like-seats. Will does, crossing his legs as he watches Hannibal retrieve something from his desk before joining him, sitting in the seat across from him. “I must admit, Will, I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Hannibal says.

“From Jack?” Will raises an eyebrow. Somehow the idea of Jack Crawford talking about Will anymore than necessary seems odd and lacks a sense of professionalism. 

“From Mrs. Bloom,” Hannibal corrects, fondly, watching Will closely. “She’s very fond of you, it seems.”

That makes more sense, and Will aches. He misses her, dearly. Things just became strange after he left, no longer helping the FBI or teaching classes anymore. There was no real reason for them to talk. “Well, that’s a relief,” Will says, though it’s only partly a joke. 

Hannibal ignores Will’s reply and instead decides this is a good point to start asking his questions. “So you Disagree with Jack Crawford’s request to have you return to the field?”

Will huffs out what isn’t quite a laugh. “I did it for a long time.”

“There was a reason you stepped away before,” Hannibal says, even and calm, watching Will. Will Stares just past him. “The same reason you won’t return now?”

Its another question that feels more like a statement, like he already has all the answers. It feels like they’ve been in the same room for less than ten minutes and Hannibal has already picked him clean. 

“I didn’t feel comfortable doing what I was doing with my current mental state. That still applies now,” Will says, biting at the inside of his cheek. The question is standard, simple, not even that intrusive but he already wants to walk out. Hannibal is clearly good at what he does and that makes Will uneasy in a way he can’t describe. 

“And what is your current mental state, Will?”

He grimaces. 

“Do you consider yourself unstable?”

“I don’t consider myself stable in a way that can safely allow me in the heads of killers,” Will says shortly, running a hand over his face. 

“Some might argue that it’s that state of instability that allows you to do what you do,” Hannibal responds, hands folded neatly in his lap. 

“I’m an empath, not a psychopath,” Will argues, though the lines are so blurred at this point he only says it on autopilot. 

“I didn’t say you were, Will,” He smiles easily, only slightly, though. “I actually find you quite intelligent and incredibly empathetic in a unique way that allows you to see inside a murderer’s head as you did. But, I would argue still that all of these factors harbor a level of instability. It’s the price you pay.”

Will doesn’t answer, his mouth is oddly dry. 

“Why don’t you teach anymore?” Hannibal asks, then, the subject flipped. 

“The same reason I don’t follow Jack Crawford and his bodies around,” Will answers, wringing his hands together. It’s both incredibly easy and simultaneously impossible to read Hannibal. “I needed to step away. I needed to be away from the bodies.”

“So it was the victims that drew you away, not the killer?” Hannibal asks and Will isn’t sure how he’s supposed to answer that. He was already going to leave, he just hadn’t found the means, realizing there were other people living off of blood like he did made something in his stomach twist. They had found human remains in his stomach, he had been deemed a cannibal and a monster- and while Will didn’t follow a murderous suit like this man, there were too many similarities that made everything swirl together. He didn’t feel like the good guy anymore, he didn’t feel like he was saving people.

“It was everything,” Will pinches the bridge of his nose. That at least isn’t a full lie.

“You don’t believe you would benefit from returning now? It was a great sense of accomplishment and good-doing for you, was it not?”

“I’m scared I would benefit too much,” Will answers honestly, and that feels the closest to a full truth as he’s been all evening. He can’t get that close again, for his sake and everyone else’s. It would be rash, foolish. Someone would inevitably get hurt at some point, and that blood would be on his hands.

The rest of the session is considerably less remarkable. Hannibal instead asks what feels like much more standard questions. How is he sleeping? Is he experiencing anxiety, depression? Is he taking any medications? How does this make you feel? None of it is as probing as he had expected, either. When he comments such, Hannibal just smiles and says, “I was under the impression you would be opposed to someone getting too deep inside your head.”

When the session is over, it’s dark outside, he can tell from the office window, and he’s oddly tired. Will stands with Hannibal and the older man sets his notepad back down on the desk. Will doesn’t think he used it once. “Thank you for your time this evening, William,” Hannibal says sincerely and Will can’t help but think that he’s the one who took up Hannibal’s time but he nods all the same. “It was a pleasure to get a taste of the inside of your brain, most of my patients are strikingly ordinary in comparison,” he says as if it’s the most casual thing in the world to say. 

They lock eyes for a second, long, and unwavering before he pulls his gaze away. “What’s your verdict?” Will asks instead of commenting. 

Hannibal looks pleased as he follows Will towards the door to his office. “I’ll need to look over my notes before I can come to a decision I would feel confident in, considering the importance of the matter.”

“Right,” Will says, allowing Hannibal to open up the door for him. 

“I will be sure to let both you and Jack know very soon,” Hannibal assures and Will nods like it eases his worries at all. It doesn’t. “Though, Will?”

Will turns back to look at him, standing in the doorway. “I would very much like to see you again.”

“I’m not your patient, Doctor,” Will reminds, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t need- I don’t _want_ any counseling.”

Hannibal smiles, eyes creasing fondly at the corners. “No, of course not. I meant as an acquaintance,” he says simply. “Come to my house tomorrow, let me cook for you.” somehow the word acquaintance sounds wrong coming from the man’s mouth. “I would be honored to get to know you better.”

Will hesitates. He doubts Hannibal is dishonest in his intentions, but he hasn't entirely decided on how he would feel allowing himself to grow closer to someone who just spent well over an hour prodding around inside of his head. He’s sure Doctor Lecter is just as good at what he does as Jack and Alana say, and it makes him anxious like an itch just under his skin. “Sure,” he agrees anyway, like it rolls off his tongue without permission. 

“Good,” he sighs, content. “I look forward to it.”

Will watches the man step closer, out of the doorway until he’s standing very, very close to Will. He’s only slightly taller than Will and yet he feels dwarfed in comparison. This close, he smells like expensive cologne. Clean. “I would ask if you’re vegetarian, but I don’t believe I have to worry about that,” Hannibal says easily and Will feels his throat constrict. 

He opens his mouth a few times, gaping open and closed like a fish out of water, just dangling on the hook, but nothing comes out. Hannibal smiles down at him, a neat thin line of his mouth curving up just slightly. “I’ll send you my address,” he says and Will can’t do more than nod slightly. “Goodnight, Will.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner timeeeee~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting! I'm so flattered that so many of you are enjoying this. here's a bit of a longer chapter to apologize for taking so long to update!

Will spends the ride back home in silence, his breath caught in his throat. There’s something settling in him that he can’t explain, but it sits wrong. Will reasons that as clearly intelligent and perceptive as Doctor lector is, that there is no possible way for him to know. 

He tries to quell his anxieties by telling himself that it’s likely that Jack or Alana told Lecter about his flyfishing or even his hunting trips. It’s logical, far more so than Hannibal knowing about Will’s eating habits, but the narrative doesn’t sit right with him even still. He almost hits his own mailbox, pulling into the driveway. He feels far away, distant. 

The night has gotten cold enough that Will pulls his jacket on before he leaves the car. The moon is bright in the clear sky and he takes a moment to watch his breath in the open air. He can already hear his dogs, clambering around the door, excited to see him and likely to relive themselves and run before Will makes them turn in for the night. “There’s no way he could know,” Will says to the air, his voice sounds unsure all the same.

He stands there for a few more moments before going inside. The dogs practically tackle him down the moment he’s through the door, leaping up and whining, their tails wagging wildly. It’s been a long time since Will was out late, or out at all, really. When he’s hunting he usually tries to bring them with him. 

He’s not hungry, still rather full from the bag he’d had that morning, but he chops up some extra meat from his fridge and divides it up for the dogs with their regular food. He changes into pajamas as they eat before sitting on the porch while they run. He’s shivering slightly in the cool night, the wind picking up a bit as it grows later. It’s almost a relief to the red hot panic he still feels under his skin. 

When he turns in for the night, he lets Winston under the covers with him, stroking his soft fur with unsteady hands as he tries to clear his head.

As high strung as he is, with Hannibal’s words playing in his head on repeat, he still falls asleep disturbingly easy that night. He dreams, but none of the faces he sees or the voices he hears are jarring enough to rouse him from his sleep. 

When he wakes up, stretching out his limbs and listening to his spine pop, he realizes the sun is up. It’s glistening through his closed curtains, bright and warm where it’s pooling on his bed. He rolls over with a grunt, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. His alarm clock says it’s nearly eleven. Will isn’t sure he’s ever slept so late before and he groans, apologizing to his overly antsy dogs as he shuffles out of bed, letting them roam the yard while he makes a pot of coffee. He does feel rested, his focus feels sharp. He guesses if he drank blood more regularly he would probably feel and sleep better. He doesn’t though. Too much blood makes his head thrum like a livewire, honed into everything with a pulse within a five-mile radius. 

He doesn’t want to risk what might happen if he allows himself a steady amount of blood. Drinking it once, maybe twice a week hasn’t killed him yet, and that’s the very strict diet he plans to keep himself on, even when the few days after he guzzles down a bag make him feel practically on cloud nine.

When he checks his phone, there’s a text from Hannibal. It simply reads his address and nothing more, but it makes that uncertainty and feeling of dread well up in his stomach again all the same. He considers canceling, wonders desperately if there’s an excuse that sounds legitimate enough to back out of Hannibal’s kind offer. He doesn’t, though, he just locks his phone again and slides it into his pants pocket. 

He spends his day at his desk, meticulously working at his fishing flies, knot after knot. His hands are far less steady than usual, even with the blood in his body making him generally more steady, his nerves are frayed, and he manages to jab his finger on the ends of his hooks more than once, licking away the tiny beads of blood as they bubbled up on the tip of his finger.

It occurs to him more than once that he should ask Hannibal if he should bring something for dinner, just to be polite. He can’t bring himself to ask until the last possible minute, though, and by then Hannibal, unsurprisingly, says no. there’s a worry in the back of Will’s mind as he gets ready to go, making sure his dogs will be taken care of in case he gets back late, that maybe he should’ve inquired more about the dinner. He has no idea how casually to dress, has no idea what to expect at all. Judging by Hannibal’s appearance and formality, he assumes everything he does is of relatively high class, at least at higher standards than how Will lives. He combs his hair back so at least it’s not hanging in his face and wears some of his nicer clothes without looking like he tried too hard. There’s something strange about Hannibal that makes him feel nervous in the best possible way, and that alone is a bizarre and confusing feeling that he tries to keep pushed far, far away, in the back of his head.

“Why did I agree to this?” he asks himself as he finishes shaving, looking himself over in the mirror. It was a stupid move. He shouldn’t be getting so close to people, not again, and certainly not a psychiatrist who can report straight back to the FBI. Not someone who’s senses seem so well attuned and who seems to have such a blatant interest in Will. Will partly blames the undeniable charm of the older man. The way he presents questions and offers leaves little room for augment. Will doesn’t _want_ to argue.

He leaves earlier than he probably needs to, driving down the long roads from his house in relative silence, aside from his car stereo playing quietly in the background. He still feels strange arriving at dinner empty-handed, but he also has nothing to bring. He would have to go by the store just to find something nice enough worth bringing, and even then he’s sure his tastes aren’t anywhere close to Doctor Lecters standards. 

The drive there is nice, the sun already beginning to set behind the trees and hills, earlier every night now. He tries to bury that sense of nervousness, push it down deep. It’s only dinner, after all, and Will has made his way through his fair share of uncomfortable dinners just to appease someone else’s social needs. He can do it again. 

When he pulls up to the house, it’s somehow larger and more impressive than his office. Even with the trees bare of any leaves, they stand tall and eerily beautiful over the house. He climbs out of the car and adjusts his shirt, hopes he looks better than he feels as he makes his way to the front door. He’s only a few minutes early and he hopes that comes across better than arriving late, though it’s clear his earliness is becoming a habit. He knocks briskly at the front door, and even from the porch, he can smell food cooking, warm and delicious. It smells like autumn, like winter squashes and warm spices, fragrant and hearty. He’s definitely hungry now.

He only has to wait a couple of moments before the door is pulled open, revealing Lecter standing there in a grey suit and an apron. He gives Will a gentle look that he can’t quite place, eyes looking him over briefly. Hannibal is certainly dressed better than himself, though he hopes the difference isn’t too unforgivable. “Will, welcome,” Hannibal says kindly, giving him a gentle smile as he steps aside to welcome him inside. “I hope you made it easily enough?”

Will nods, stepping inside. The interior of the hallway looks expensive, rich mahogany, and beautifully lit. It’s warm inside, too, comfortable in a way that reminds him of sitting by the fireplace. Now that he’s inside the house, the smell is even stronger and he can easily make out the smell of roasted vegetables and some kind of meat. “It smells amazing,” he comments, shrugging off his jacket which Hannibal takes from him quickly, hanging it on a coatrack gently. 

“Thank you,” he hums, sounding prideful. “Dinner is nearly finished, but you’ll have to excuse me as I finish the vegetables. Perhaps we can open a bottle of wine, in the meantime?” \

“Sure,” Will agrees, feeling vaguely out of place here. He follows close behind Hannibal as they head back into the house towards the kitchen. The entire building seems to be decorated impeccably and the sense of homeyness and comfort doesn’t fade, even with the place being far nicer and larger than anything Will is used to. He knows it’s likely due to the fact he fed recently, but everything seems to feel and smell so much _more_ than usual. He can smell the warm musk of Lecter’s cologne, can literally hear the steady sound of his heart beating when he steps close enough. It’s still bizarre, even after all this time, being so well attuned after feeding. It’s like he’s spinning with the earth, uncontrolled and dizzying. 

Once inside the kitchen, Will can see several pots and pans on the stove or resting on the counter, all filled beautifully with some of the richest smelling food he’s ever known. He gets right back to work, salting and tasting a couple of dishes that Will has no name for. He gestures to a bar stool by the counter, close enough he can watch Hannibal work without getting in the way, and he accepts, taking a seat.

“I think a good red will serve us well,” Hannibal hums, stepping away from a pot over the stove to retrieve a bottle of wine. The bottle alone looks expensive and he doesn’t really want to know what the liquid inside costs. He pops the cork without hesitation, though, pouring two generous glasses. Will accepts it gratefully, tasting it on his tongue with a gentle sip. It’s good, sweet, and aromatic. Hannibal tastes it with far more practice and finesse but they seem to share the same opinion of it. “Delicious. One of my favorites.”

Will hums in agreement, taking another sip as he tries to get more comfortable. He leans onto the counter a bit to peer at what Hannibal is making, watches him work with a kind of precision that he’s fairly sure is often found only in well-trained chefs. 

“How have you been fairing, since we last spoke?” Hannibal asks, eyes focused fully on his work. 

Will swishes the wine around gently in his glass, watches it make rings around the glass before settling again. “Good, fine. Trying to keep busy.” 

Hannibal nods. “Good, I’m glad,” he responds, but he stops like he decides last minute against continuing. 

“Have you made a decision yet, on what to tell Jack?” Will asks.

“I tend not to discuss business matters outside of my office,” Hannibal smiles. “You are either very eager or very nervous for my answer.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while since I did anything like what Jack wants me to do,” Will sighs, taking another generous drink of his wine. “I just feel like everything is being decided for me, with my head in the dark.”

“To a degree, I think that is true,” Hannibal says, nodding. He takes the roast out of the oven, it’s large and glazed beautifully. “Jack wants what is best for you, wants an unbiased opinion. He also very much wants to see you return to the field.”

“Yeah, he’s made that very clear.”

“You realize, whatever your reasons, the choice to return, if I clear you, resigns solely in your hands, yes? At the end of the day, you can still deny Jack of this and turn away,” Hannibal says gently, pressing a meat thermometer into the thick of the roast. 

“If only it were that easy,” Will says, smiling slightly. “Jack can be very persuasive. 

“As can I,” Hannibal says, pausing to look at Will closely. He doesn’t elaborate further, and somehow he doesn’t need to, it’s wordlessly clear that Doctor Lecter is deadly serious in the matter of Will’s health and well-being. It’s a protective kind of aura that Will can’t say he dislikes, it feels dangerous. “Please, go take a seat, I’ll bring the food out. The dining room is just down the hall.”

Will nods, wordlessly stands and crosses the room. He finds the dining room easily and takes a seat. The silence is suddenly deafening and he bounces his leg, can smell the meat so clearly even from here, and his jaw aches. It’s not until he can hear Lecter bringing the food out, balancing everything easily, that Will realizes that he doesn’t just smell the roast, that it’s not the well-cooked meat making his second set of teeth ache and try to slip from his gums, it’s blood. Will swallows thickly, watches Hannibal carefully as he sets the dishes down in the middle of the table, still holding two covered plates with their helpings on it. Hannibal doesn’t seem to be injured in the slightest, even with Will scouring over his hands, he can’t see so much as a cut. The smell is strong, though, and it’s fresh and plentiful. Will feels a sense of fear wash over him the closer Hannibal stands, seemingly unaware of Will’s eyes on him. The smell is so strong and it’s undeniably, crushingly human.

Hannibal places a plate down in front of Will before setting his own down at his seat, smiles at Will briefly, seemingly unaware of the way Will has started sweating, skin pale and hot. Hannibal takes a seat swiftly, pulls the top off of his plate, shows a beautifully presented plate of meat and squash. He can’t place half of what it is, exotic and stunning. “Please, enjoy,” Hannibal hums, sipping at his wine as he watches Will.

Will tries to swallow the lump in his throat, tries to ignore the way his gums ache terribly in his mouth, unwilling to let his teeth slip out. “It looks stunning,” Will says, trying not to sound forced. It does look amazing, and it smells even better if he can push away the ever stronger smell of blood. He lifts the lid from his plate, sucks in a breath at the display before him, not at all like Lecter’s own plate. The lid slips from his fingers, clattering loudly to the floor below. He hardly even flinches, it’s like all of the air has been sucked from the room, his heart pounding in his chest like it means to escape. He can feel his fangs peeking out from his gums, just barely, his nostrils flaring. He snaps his attention to Hannibal once he breaks from his trance, eyes wide, fighting against an almost animalistic urge. “What-?”

Hannibal looks unbothered, bites into a forkful of his food. “Is it not to your liking?” he asks, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side.

“Is this a joke?” Will barks almost hysterically, hands trembling as they hover over his plate. 

“No, of course not,” Hannibal says, brow furrowing. “I merely altered the menu slightly, to better fit your needs.”

Will pulls his eyes away from Hannibal, stares down at his plate. Everything looks very much the same, the vegetables and sauce match Hannibal’s, except in the place of pork, there is a large, human heart, bloody and raw. “My needs?” Will rasps breathlessly, leaning back in his chair as he tries to steady his breath.

“It is blood that you survive on,” Hannibal says, and it’s not a question. Not at all.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you,” Will breathes, standing up abruptly, he almost tips the chair over in his haste, his body rushed with adrenaline until his whole body is trembling. “I don’t know-”

“There’s no need for this, Will,” Hannibal says calmly, still seated. He drinks from his glass again, eyes never leaving Will’s face. “No need for such distress.”

“I think I need to go,” Will says, a bit frantic. He feels like he can’t breathe. He takes a step away from the table, stumbling.

Hannibal stands and crosses the room to Will’s side in a moment, gently cupping the back of Will’s neck as he sighs deeply. “I think you should stay, eat. Remember, I can be terribly persuasive,” he says, a finger pressing against Will’s lips, forcing his gum up to prod at his sharp tooth with the ball of his index finger

“How do you know- how did you know?” Will rasps, jerking away from Hannibal so that they’re staring at each other, less than a foot of space between them. He can hear Hannibal’s heart, steady and calm, confident.

“I have a very attuned sense of smell,” Hannibal smiles. “I could smell blood on your breath from the first time we met. My extracurriculars have let me discover far stranger things than this, Will, I can assure you.”

“I don’t understand,” Will breathed, wide-eyed and panting. He felt like he might pass out as if oxygen was no longer entering his lungs.

“If you’re concerned about your secret getting out, I can assure you I have no interest in such things. Bringing attention to your eating habits would only draw attention to my own,” Hannibal hums, pleased. “It is however considered very rude not to eat what’s been so kindly prepared for you.”

“Doctor Lecter, I don’t- I can’t,” Will argues weakly, even though the smell of the tender organ is making his mouth water, teeth aching in his mouth as they try to slide out fully, starved for it. 

“Shh, shh, you have nothing to fear, William,” Hannibal purrs, running a careful, steady hand through the mess of Will’s curls. Will doesn’t know if he wants to move into the touch or run away. “Allow yourself this, hm? Someone like yourself deserves meat of a far higher status than an animal.” he pushes gently at Will’s shoulder, guides him back to his seat. He moves like his body is working on autopilot, unable to turn away as Hannibal sits him back down in his seat, carefully picking up the organ, still warm and pulsing gentle bubbles of blood in his hand. 

The blood runs down Hannibal’s hand like a river, each drip making delicate patterns in his skin. “Let me indulge you.”

Will hardly notices his fangs slip down fully, aligned with his other teeth now, sharp and dangerous, yearning and starved. “I can’t,” Will whines softly, but his head feels so foggy. There’s a distinct difference between animal blood and human, and a stark difference between a blood bag and something straight from the source, hot and dripping. He feels more animal than human, feels like he’s floating from his body, away from his conscious thought, giving in to something more animalistic and instinctual. He hardly notices when he bites into it, teeth sinking smoothly into the tissue, blood welling in his mouth as he drinks greedily in starved gulps. Hannibal holds it steady as he drinks, petting through his hair gently, coaxing. Will can’t focus on what he’s saying, only that he is in fact speaking. His world is narrowed down to a pinprick, the metallic rush of blood as he laps at the punctures, drawing more blood from the meat. 

Will feels his eyes roll back, leans against the back of the chair, blood running down his neck where he isn’t fast enough to drink it down. His skin is alive, thrumming, and hot, his entire head feels stuffed full of cotton, foggy, and content as he drinks until there’s nothing left. When he pulls away, the organ is practically white, held in Hannibal’s careful hands, the doctor’s face pleased. 

“Good boy.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayy,, finally updating. sorry, life's been a bitch and I've been a bit stuck on this story. anywho, hope y'all enjoy!

Will’s vision whites out, head pulsing, alive, and feverish. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, feels his pulse thunder under his skin, rabbit fast. His body feels heavy, like lead, weighed down, lax. There’s a sweet rush of euphoria and adrenaline coursing heavy through his body, makes him tremble almost violently, somehow both alert and dizzyingly fatigued, like he’s an animal ready to hibernate after a feast. There’s a hand in his hair, stroking and petting, feather-light. It actually takes his fogged brain several seconds to register that that’s what he’s feeling. It’s enough to make his eyes open, unaware he had closed them. He’s breathing heavily, skin glistening with sweat. He forces his eyes up, head spinning as he settles on Lecters face, calm and pleased looking. He’s practically holding Will, who’s limp against him, still slumped in the chair at the dinner table. He isn’t sure how much time has passed, feels almost as if he’s just waking from a heavy sleep. 

“How do you feel?” Hannibal asks calmly, pressing the back of his hand to Will’s forehead. There’s blood, drying and flaking on Hannibal’s other hand, the one that held the heart just moments before. He’s clinical in his quick assessment of Will, even the question sounds serious and professional, if not a touch smug. 

Will feels sated and pleasantly full for the first time in ages, possibly as far back as his memory will allow, and he still gets the urge to lick at the blood on the man’s fingers all the same. Will grunts, tries to pull himself away from where Hannibal is cradling his head, petting, stroking. There’s a part of him screaming, panicked, and hysterical; the part of him that knows what just happened is so very, very bad. It shouldn’t have happened, none of this should be real and there’s part of him still desperately hoping he’ll wake up at any moment, everything just a twisted nightmare. That part of his brain is oddly muddled though, distant. The panic is buried underneath the feeling of contentment, a much more animalistic feeling. There’s a sense of _right_ in knowing he’s well-fed, feasting on what his body is meant to consume. He craves that more than anything else, that feeling of peace settling in his gut, even if he knows it’s wrong, the lies of a high that’ll soon wear off. 

“There’s no need to fight,” Hannibal says, sounds fascinated as he does like Will is a prized specimen, ripe for his taking and studying. “I’m not a threat to you.”

Will scowls, finds that he believes quite the opposite. In a single evening, the man had managed to threaten everything Will had built for himself. His entire identity rests in the hands of this man, now. 

“I consider it fate that you came to me, William.”

“Fate?” Will bites out, wrenches himself away from Hannibal even though he still feels pleasantly exhausted and floaty. The better part of him feels the bite of fury and disgust at what Hannibal has done, feeding him like an animal. 

“I believe that the things that happen, certainly happen for a reason,” Hannibal hums, does the job of licking his hand clean himself, licking a wide stipe of the still fresh blood from his hand, where it had run. “Finding a new good use for my interests is certainly a rewarding idea.”

“Your interests?” Will chokes, fears already knows the answer to his question. Hannibal killed someone for the heart he had drained, doubts it was his first time harvesting something like that, either. “You killed someone.”

The smile on Hannibal’s face drops, slightly. He almost misses it, the change in expression is so slight. “Yes,” he answers simply, watching closely, calculating. 

Will stands up, though he feels strange, not unlike being drunk. His limbs feel all wrong and he sways slightly in place, making sure there’s a decent amount of distance between the two of them. Hannibal just adjusts his posture slightly, still reclined comfortably in the chair. 

“This bothers you?” Hannibal ventures, after a pause. He sounds somewhat surprised at the idea and Will scoffs, shaking his head. 

“My entire job is stopping people like you,” Will growls. 

“Like me?” Hannibal smiles, cleaning the rest of his hand off with one of the napkins at the table. “You of all people should understand me, Will.”

Will swallows. “How many people have you killed?” He regrets leaving the gun at home, his hip empty. He’s not sure if he’s asking out of genuine curiosity or just to stall, at this point. The words fall from his lips so easily. 

Hannibal makes a noise in the back of his throat, folds the napkin neatly before placing it back on the table. “We’re no different,” he says, voice dipping a little lower. “Everyone has needs.”

“I don’t eat people,” Will spits, takes another step back as if another foot between them will save him from any of this. 

“Your body is sacred, Will. You must nourish it properly, especially someone as unique as yourself.”

He can’t help the sound of disgust he makes, even with his belly full of someone’s life, his entire body thrumming and alive. “I nourish it fine without murdering people.”

“Off of animal scraps, yes,” Hannibal says, the distaste drips from every word like poison. “I would treat livestock better than you treat yourself.” 

“And what about you, hm?” Will asks, watches the way Hannibal’s expression hasn’t changed, cool and collected. He’s almost playfully amused by the whole thing, drinking every last drop of Will’s distress like it’s a fine wine. “What do you do to nourish yourself?”

Hannibal smiles, if only a bit. “I prefer my meat fresher than most,” he says, standing. 

Will takes another step back, can sense the wall only another pace behind him. He wonders if he can dart and make it to the doorway before Hannibal can get to him. 

“There is no reason to feel fear,” Hannibal says, brushing his suit off. “Or shame. You are one of very few that I find utterly deserving of such delicacies. Special taste or not.”

The way Hannibal describes it makes Will feel sick as if it’s a simple preference, like Will wouldn’t love to return to eating salads and fruit, fucking Cheerios to sustain himself. Anything other than blood. Hannibal does it because he wants to. Because he likes it. 

“Don’t,” Will says, but he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, really. 

“I find you particularly fascinating, Will,” Hannibal hums. “And I think you’ll learn to enjoy my cooking rather quickly, wouldn’t you say? I admit you seem to enjoy it a bit more rare than myself, though.”

“I’m not going to play serial killer with you,” Will hisses, freezes up as Hannibal walks up to him in several short strides. Hannibal’s so close he can feel his breath against his skin, hear his pulse under his collar, steady and strong. 

“I’m not here to play.”

Will’s already connected the dots, he knows how badly he’s in it. There’s no way for him to tell Jack or anyone else about Hannibal without his own secret escaping. If Hannibal tells the FBI about Will’s eating tendencies and finds the truth behind it, he’s sure it’ll be a lot harder to pin anything on Lecter. He’s been ensnared thoroughly, and he walked right in, willing and blind. 

“Do you think that God would place you with anyone more perfectly detailed for you?” Hannibal asks, tucks a piece of Will’s hair behind his ear as he does. “I enjoy what I do, Will. I always have, and I do not believe that will ever be untrue. I can give you exactly as you need, I assure you I will benefit greatly in your company, too.”

“No,” Will grits out, teeth clenched. It’s too easy for him to understand Hannibal, understand the thrill of having a purpose to kill, something to study, and provide for like a pet. Hannibal finds him interesting, and right now, that’s all of the motivation he needs. 

Hannibal makes a displeased sound. “I plan to give Jack Crawford a near-perfect report,” he says after a beat. Will meets his eyes for only a moment and the look on Lecter’s face is unreadable. “But I will of course inform him that I think it would be best to have you continue seeing me, to ensure your continued stability.”

Will isn’t sure if the feeling that lights up under his skin is rage or fear, but he bares his teeth, feels the slide of his fangs threaten to slip free from his gums. “I won’t do this, I won’t play your games, I don’t feed into this.”

“You already have,” Hannibal says, swipes his finger across Will’s chin to gather a bit of cooled blood. “And I don’t think either of us wants to go back now.”


End file.
